


Windows of the Soul

by lynndyre



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dreams, Elven Telepathy - Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: Celeborn's eyes are open in dreaming, and in the low light of the fire they draw Elrohir's gaze.





	Windows of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



Celeborn's eyes are open in dreaming. In the low light of the fire they draw Elrohir's gaze. His brother's sleeping face is familiar, and curiousity exerts a magnetic influence.

It is the middle watch of the night, moving quietly into the last, but the air hums with the promise of coming rain. The birds flutter in their roosting trees, and the night animals have taken refuge against the storm that threatens in the distance, growling with promise but not yet ready to move down from the mountains. They are close to home, close enough that Rivendell's borders will be crossed tomorrow storm or no, but they'll not escape a drenching.

A diplomatic entourage would have brought more supplies, would have provided further pack animals, would have included tents and pavilions in which to wait out the storm in comfort. But their party is only three, and they travel Ranger-fashion, riding out with only horse and pack and weapons. An incongruous setting for Celeborn, former lord of East Lorien, former lord of Lothlorien, of Eregion, of Doriath. 

A strangely fitting environment for a grandfather, for all that Elrohir has difficulty in reconciling the two. The firelight is caught in Grandfather's eyes. The shine of it makes them deeper still, and even in sleep Elrohir can see the joining of spirit that is his marriage to Grandmother, a bond older than two ages of Middle Earth. A joining of souls pulled now into the thinnest tethering thread. 

His body stirs not at all, but Elrohir watches his fingers flex and slowly clench, gripping nothing, and his brow is furrowed.

The wind rises, and Elrohir kneels closer, and meets his Grandfather's eyes. Reaches.

Elrohir can see the stars. All of Elbereth's works, spread across the sky- yet the patterns are wrong. The moon shines down waxing full, when it should be waning crescent, and hidden by the clouds. The stand of trees where their horses are tethered is translucent in the moonlight, and then gone. The mountains are clear as the sky, the threatening storm wiped away.

The land itself is changed. The rocks are sharper, the trees younger- and thicker, where they are not broken or cut. And low and rolling comes the sound of many horses, many feet. 

This holds the feel of memory, not of dream.

Grandfather's hand reaches again, and Elrohir takes it, laces his fingers through Celeborn's. The dreaming grip is punishingly tight, only relaxing itself after a long moment, as though once sure of Elrohir's solidity. His face is tightening, now, marked with pain. 

Celeborn's body curls, bows inward, stretches once more, and he is clothed in armour, scored and dented from recent battle. The breastplate, splattered black and red, melts away, and Elrohir can see the scar that marks his belly, a long curving silver furrow that darkens as he looks at it, flushing pink with blood. Elrohir reaches out, and Grandfather's skin is hot to the touch. At the brush of his fingers the scar splits and gapes wide, weeping clear and crimson.

There are torches, many torches. So many candles against the darkness. A phantom voice cries out in lamentation, another in desperate anger. Through the altered moonlight, Elrohir can see a great procession of elves. Not the quiet, steady exodus of the path to the Havens, nor the march of an army. There are soldiers, before and beside the walkers, the wagons, but there are women, artisans, children. Elven children, tall and walking, small and born along by their kin, more than Rivendell knew even when the twins themselves were young.

A breeze Elrohir cannot feel stirs the banners, and they unfurl: There is Lindon. A guild design. The star of Feanor. Something with holly, the banner shaped wrongly for its stave, made to hang within a hall. And then the flowering star of Earendil, and Elrohir cannot stop the moan that escapes his lips.

Ada.

Father is there. With Grandfather, wounded in the siege. Part of this night march, with soldiers of Lindon and all the refugees of Eregion. They are seeking the valley that will hide them from Sauron's advance across Eriador-

"Grandfather! Elrohir!"

The connection breaks. Elrohir's head is ringing, as with the cessation of a powerful noise. The tread of many feet is melted away into the fall of rain. The roll of wagonry into the stirring of thunder. The rock behind them, the old trees grows solid once more.

Elladan's hands are on them both, and Elrohir reaches for his brother in return. Celeborn rolls upright, still favouring the side that was injured in his dream. 

Celeborn blinks into the sky, gathering himself and brushing the rain from his face. Already it is darkening his hair from Mother's familiar silver to watery ice. Further off, on his tether, Elladan's horse whickers, and Elrohir can hear all three of their mounts shifting at the rain.

When did the storm reach them? For how long did Elrohir walk that dream? 

"Are you-"

"Well. Well enough. You are-?"

Elrohir murmurs his assent, and lets Elladan draw his thoughts from his gaze, a far safer prospect with a twin than a sleeping elf older than the sun. Elladan's grip on his wrist is emphatic, and Elrohir will be paying for this. Likely twice over, for Grandfather is not one to cross, and Elrohir touched a painful dream.

Father's standard, marching in the darkness. A glimpse so clear, if only-

Elrohir will pay for that, willingly, though the guilt of it wells up in him until he leans closer, pressing his face into Grandfather's shoulder. Grandfather's hand cards through his hair, grip firm but shiveringly gentle, and a moment later Elladan is pressed close beside them.

Celeborn's breath is heavy, but slowing, and more swiftly than Elrohir's own. The last embers of the fire are long extinguished, and they ought to seek better cover. Elladan is unlikely to release his grip on either of them.

Lightning forks purple across the mountains, but the bolts dance and strike and dance again before any of the figures below straighten and separate.


End file.
